summer

•April 26, 2007 • Leave a Comment

long, loose, easy limbs.

I walk with long, lose, warm strides

move my hips like honey in the sunlight

smile sweet like thick, dark syrup

melt my kisses over your eager face

waft my skirt over your heated hands.

Summer comes again.

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Tu m’aimes?

•March 6, 2007 • Leave a Comment

Why do you love me?

I worry about this, my dearest. I worry
that you love me not for
 
who I am

but for that which I am undeniably not.

They say I’m “quiet”
They say

in voices, filled with pride and awe and wonder that
I’m

“not THAT kind of girl”– a ridiculous epithet!
They remark that I don’t “sleep around”

(an image– a sleepwalker in a red lace negligee
“sleeps around” oblivious to taunts and the simple

cruelty of womankind)

They point to a gold disc with a harsh red ribbon

–so uncomfortable to wear, like the title of

“scholar”–
proof negative of what i am not– a young, female,

delinquent, illiterate at 19
enceinte at 20.

But baby,
I am more
than the opposite of what i am not.

Look at me.

Look past unremarkable brown hair and brown eyes and
the sun’s kisses on my cheeks.

Look past the prizes and the pain

Ignore the scars–

i’ll cry away the mascara for you so you can see

through the tears and smears into

my soul.

Do you love me now?

Larmes

•February 27, 2007 • Leave a Comment

Dearest
I never loved you so much
as when,

abandoning the boyish dignity that makes me smile,
you wept a man’s tears at our parting.

tu me manques

•February 27, 2007 • Leave a Comment

Tu me manques.

Je suis trop polie d’écrire cette poème en anglais
bien que
je ne sache point de la poésie français

alors
je l’écris comme les anglais, en français
j’espère que les mots de mon coeur défie la barrière

linguistique.

Tu me manques.

Quelquefois, quand toute es tranquille
je suis dans mon lit, toute seule
tu me manques
tu me manques beaucoup.

Ton absence est comme l’absence de ma jambe ou mes
doigts ou ma colonne vertébrale
peut-être, si on deviendrait sourde, on peut
comprendrait ce que je me sans quand je ne suis pas
avec toi

et quand je suis seule, j’espère que tu seras avec
moi, dans mon lit, et que ma camarade de chambre
ne sera pas avec nous.

(il y a des émotions qu’on ne peut pas exprimer quand
il y a des autres, sauf toi et moi.)

Je voudrais beaucoup tu montre ce que je me sens.

Je voudrais toucher ton visage
baiser tes paupières et ton cou–

je sais que ton cou est très sensitif!

je voudrais baiser ton cou sans fin, jusqu’à tu m’a
pris

avec intensité.

je voudrais dessiner des circles sur ta poitrine avec
mes doigts et alors, mes lèvres et ma langue

(pendant ce temps, tu m’embrasses, tu me touches, tu
sondes les espaces plus prives de moi

tu es douce– terriblement douce avec moi

je voudrais que tu est plus violent, mais je jouis, je
meurs, petit a petit comme ça.)

je touche ton verge, dur et fort dans mes mains, et,

je te
pris dans moi

et je suis complète.

Mais, tu n’es pas avec moi, et mes rêves ne sont pas
réels.

Alors

quand je suis toute seule, dans mon lit, sans toi
sans le lumière de mon chemin
sans l’amant de ma vie

avec mes mains, mes doigts
petit a petit, j’imagine que tu est ici
Je ne jouis pas
je ne suis pas complète.
Tu me manques.

pour moi d’etre pour toi

•February 27, 2007 • Leave a Comment

look.

a little girl sleeps, dreams.
dark hair drips onto her pillow– a tangled mass, her mother says–
white nightgown, dusky brown arms and legs
skinned knees and scraped elbows
miraculously unvain of broken nails and the galaxy of freckles on her small face.

she sleeps.

glasses perched on a book, glasses she no longer needs to see magic in her world.
glasses that make her face serious
glasses to read and imagine worlds beyond her room, her house, her small island.
glasses that she has not yet learnt to hate.

she sleeps.

and dreams. sees things far away,
dreams of magic and princes and beauty and treasure–
in this world, value is given to the least of things
a cloud may be finespun silk
coloured by butterflies
sewn by spiderwebs dotted with dew, they
make a dress, lovely as enchantment for her.
small feet go bare.

dark hair slips, drips, drops over her eyes
where her glasses aren’t– what can she tie it with?

long emerald ribbons of grass? no.

a tiara is made for her, the silk
of baby hair bound back, held tight
with diamonds of dewdrops.

and she wakes
with the certain knowledge in her head that

“dewdrops can be diamonds, too.”

Ludos

•February 27, 2007 • Leave a Comment

a game, dearest,
our game, by birthright and blessing
where laughter and kisses fly about, light
as the multitudinously pleasing butterflies.

yet sometimes upon parting
something, like my backbone, shifts
and with terrible, beautiful newness i discover how not to breathe
and our everhungry mouths hover and forget how to meet and move
and i am wholly uncertain how to be

except with you.

The First

•February 27, 2007 • Leave a Comment

They tell me that the first things are the most important.

I do not know if I agree or disagree, cannot argue for or against:

This is the first thing I write for you

(for, regardless if you read it every day or never see it at all

This Is For You)

but this will sink to the bottom, buried by words and memories, all I have to give to you.

The first thing I say will be the last thing you read

Let it now be known that

I love you

My life is lived thus for you

You are my skin

A cloak on a cold day

You are the deepest and most secret of my heart.

I love you.

All I do here and there and always and never 

is for you.